


Bad Moon Rising

by CS_WhiteWolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Minor Violence, Post - Harry Potter, Pre - Supernatural, Suicidal Thoughts, lycanthrophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CS_WhiteWolf/pseuds/CS_WhiteWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dean are on the hunt for a werewolf terrorizing the locals of an out of the way town in North Dakota. But when the hunt goes wrong and Dean ends up injured, they find themselves under the care of Messrs Lupin and Snape; two men who, in John’s opinion, seem to know more than they should about the goings on in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [LiveJournal] sncross_bigbang, 2010.  
> Originally posted [[here](http://cs-whitewolf.livejournal.com/313478.html)]. Beta'd by krazykipper <33\. Artwork by the lovely mattheal, also available [[here](http://mattheal.livejournal.com/9721.html)].

Dean hissed as a splash of cold water landed on the back of his neck, running in an icy-cold trail down beneath the collar of his jacket and shirt both as he ducked his head enough to slip under the reaching branches of the trees surrounding him. Finally clearing the trees, he found himself stepping into a relatively small clearing. He scanned the area, seeing his dad, John, crouched down on the ground examining a clump of autumn leaves.

Without the trees for cover, Dean quickly grabbed at the lapels of his coat and hitched it closer, trying to stop the spitting drops of rainwater from slipping beneath the leather once more. He stared sourly at the back of his dad’s head. He was cold and wet and tired of hiking in circles through the same goddamned forest for the better part of a day, but he knew better than to say anything. John’s moods of late swung between surly and angry so fast that Dean couldn’t be sure if he’d be ducking spiteful words or a cuff aimed at the back of his head by the end of the day.

He pursed his lips and tore his eyes away, scanning his surroundings as he’d been taught for signs of anything untoward; bent blades of grass, crushed leaves, broken branches, and so on and so forth. Dean shifted his weight and tried not to sigh too loudly as the rain seemed to turn it up a notch, pouring itself down upon them with a renewed force. He saw his dad’s shoulders tense and wondered if the rain or his huffing had brought about the reaction. He adjusted his posture, a fighting stance, and turned his eyes this way and that in a continuous sweep of the area as John finally straightened, turning to him.

Dean avoided his dad’s gaze, even as he felt the intensity of John’s eyes on him in the moment before he barked out something that sounded appropriately commanding and disappeared into the thick foliage surrounding them. Biting back a curse, Dean hefted his rucksack and followed. He desperately hoped they would be heading back to their motel now, preferably with a quick pit-stop at the burger joint he’d spotted in the drive up to the Sheyenne State Forest in which they’d been trudging around for the better part of a day.

This was their first hunt together, his and John’s, that is. At least, this was their first hunt together in a of couple months. They’d hunted together before, of course, the older his younger brother, Sam- Sammy- grew, the less he’d wanted to be a part of what they did and so they’d had to leave him behind a couple hunts in the past.

This one was different though. This hunt was the first since Sam had left them. Gone off to collage or some bullshit and left his family behind with nary a backwards glance. It hurt, not having his brother around. He’d practically raised the kid himself and it had felt very much the same as a stab in the back when Sam had suddenly announced to John and himself that he’d applied and been accepted into Stanford, he was going away to school to study law (of all goddamned things), and then dad had gone absolutely ballistic.

Words had been thrown like punches with Dean sitting in the middle, trying to play devils advocate and getting nothing but curses and word-punches thrown at him for his troubles. Tempers had been at an all time high and then, when Dean had thought real fists were going be brought into play, everything went deathly silent and John had said the words that had ripped the three of them apart (a tear that certainly felt irreparable). He’d told Sammy to go. He’d told his youngest son (Dean’s baby brother) to pack his bags and leave right then. He’d told Sam that if he walked out that door, if he left them, that he wasn’t welcome back. Ever.

Dean had intervened then, one hand on Sammy’s arm to stop him (the guy was stubborn like that and Dean knew he’d go just to spite John) and got right up in his father’s space trying make him take it back. He got smacked then, a sucker-punch right across the jaw. It wasn’t a hard punch, by any means. In fact it was relatively soft and restrained, particularly when considered in hindsight and just how enraged his dad was at the time.

He’d stumbled back from it all the same, his eyes wide, mouth slack with the shock of John having raised a hand to him at all (out with training and the odd smack to the back of the head for his lip of course). Sam had shifted beside him, muscles bunched and ready but Dean simply squeezed the arm he held before dropping his hand altogether. He never took his eyes off John. John who wasn’t even looking at him anymore but at Sam, who, in the calmest voice he could muster told John that his bag was already packed and his bus left in a half hour.

Dean went numb then, hearing those words. This wasn’t something Sam could be talked out of, this wasn’t even something he’d wanted to talk to them about, this was goodbye- a right proper _fuck you and so long_ \- and Dean couldn’t even look at him. The silence stretched out for seconds that ticked along like hours before Sam moved, snatched up a duffle and shoulder-bag and left what was passing for their home this week without another word.

John found a bottle of Jack soon after. Dean locked himself in the bathroom.

Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t have gone after Sam. Talked to him. Talked him out of going. He hadn’t spoken to his brother in months now. He’d dialled his number a couple of times, thumb hesitant over the call button, but always he’d ended it before it could start. A part of him was terrified the number wouldn’t connect, that Sam had purged even that last connection to them from his life. Another part of him knew he’d just shit his brother out for leaving and he hated himself for it.

He hated Sam for it all the same; for what he’d done and how he’d done it, for how John had taken it and reacted to it, for the way it felt like he was being punished by both of them for it and he didn’t know how to make it better. He resented them both for splitting the family. It was never peaches and cream between the three of them, even before Sammy left, but they’d at least been together. They’d still been a family. Dean didn’t know what they were anymore.

He heard the sound of the impala’s engine purring to life before he saw her. John was already sitting behind the wheel by the time Dean trudged his way out of the trees. He didn’t mean to slam the door closed behind him as he slipped into the passenger seat (except, he kind of _did_ ).

John’s head snapped round at the sound, his gaze a glare which Dean met for the first time in a long while. He felt a thrum rush through him and realised he was sporting for a fight, for a right proper blood and bruised up fight. John realised it too, his jaw tensing as he, with deliberate effort, turned away. His knuckles were white in their grip upon the steering wheel. Dean turned his gaze to look out the side window, his body trembling with unspent adrenaline. He closed his eyes as John put the car into gear and reversed them out of the forest.

\- - -

They were staying in a small motel just outside of Fort Ransom and the Sheyenne State Forest where the primary focus of their hunt was located. As with most of the motels Dean had stayed in all his life, it left much to be desired: peeling wallpaper lined the walls, the edges curling and yellowing with age; two rickety beds were pushed up against the far wall, and though they’d been made up with fresh enough bedding (apparently), the sheets upon them were still stained and grubby enough to appear as though they’d sooner walk off themselves to be washed than wait for the management to get to them; and to kick things off the toilet was broken and the hot water only seemed to run in cold and extra cold.

Still, it wasn’t the worst place he’d ever stayed in. That thought in itself was depressing enough for Dean to turn his attention back upon his father, who’d seated himself at the large window-facing table. John was bent over his journal and some accompanying local maps, noting down whatever nuggets of information he’d picked up today whilst Dean had been freezing his balls off.

Dean dumped his rucksack onto his bed and shrugged out of his jacket before moving to sit opposite his father. He reached for some of the paperwork they’d been looking through that had led them to trek up into North Dakota; newspaper articles, obituaries, local police reports- all of which depicted in words and images the horrific mutilation of five locals. All of the bodies had been ravished almost beyond recognition and autopsies preformed on what was left of the bodies suggested animal attacks, in particular a wolf.

Or in their world, the attacks had all the implications of these having been werewolf attacks. The attacks all happened around the time of the full moon, the shape and indentation of the bite marks, though reminiscent of a wolf or wild dog, too suggested a werewolf (or so his father claimed, though to be fair, Dean knew he didn’t have nearly the same level of experience his dad did when it came to hunting), and all five bodies had been found in roughly the same area of woodland.

They’d arrived in Fort Ransom just three days prior and spent the first and second of those days speaking to the locals, the county sheriffs department and the families of the bereaved in an attempt to arm themselves with as much information as to the whereabouts and linking factors between each of the victims.

There hadn’t been much connecting them save for the location, moon phase and the manner in which they’d been mauled. Two of the victims, a Sam and Derek Jones had been out camping off-track, aside from them however all of the victims were unknown to one another.

The Sheriff’s department had already closed off the campsite and trails to locals and called in Animal Control. Having intercepted the call early on, John and Dean had arrived, ready to pass themselves off as rangers prepared to catch and kill the wolf that had been terrorizing the locals for three months now.

Dean shifted the papers into a semblance of order and spied amongst them a chart of moon phases. Circled in red was the date of the next full moon; tomorrow night.

“Do we have a plan?” Dean asked, his voice gruff from disuse. He realised he hadn’t actually spoken to his father (or anyone come to think of it) since their first day in Fort Ransom. He kept his eyes trained on the printout he held as his father paused in his writing and looked up at him.

John said nothing. Dean felt the pricking of his dad’s stare and reluctantly dragged his eyes up. He lifted the printout and indicated the full moon. John put his pen down.

“We have a plan,” he agreed.

The plan, if it could be called one at all, apparently involved the pair of them returning to the last clearing they’d passed through that day, around midday the next day, where they would prepare to lie in wait of the creature returning. Dean kept his face deliberately blank, his teeth biting at his cheek against the quipped remark of just how great an idea that was.

“Why that clearing?” Dean asked instead.

John’s eyes narrowed fractionally, “It’s where the nest is.”

Dean bit even harder at the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. The way his father said it implied that Dean should have known the answer without asking. Which he maybe should have, he realised, his mouth souring. That or he should have been smart enough not to ask in the first place and just have let his dad assume he knew.

“It’ll know we’ve been there,” Dean said, trying to deflect from his previous question, or at least imply that it hadn’t been nearly as stupid a question as it appeared to be. He’d seen his father crouched down in the damp earth, his head moving almost imperceptibly back and forth whilst his hands searched through the moist foliage and topsoil for prints and signs of recent activity. He should have spotted whatever his father had found to make him believe the werewolf would return to that same place. He would have, he supposed, if he hadn’t been so put out by the whole goddamned day and his father to boot.

“Let it know,” John answered, eyes flicking back down to his journal to make a notation on a page already brimming with his scrawlings. “These creatures aren’t smart, Dean. If they smell a human, they’ll want to hunt and kill it. They’re not going to stop and worry about their dinner fighting back.”

It was the most John had said to him in a week. Dean sighed inwardly and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wanted to ask his dad more about this plan of his, how they were going to cover all their bases, predict the direction the creature would come from, how they were going to overpower and kill it before it killed them, and so on and so forth. But John’s head was bent once more over his journal and Dean knew another interruption wouldn’t be taken well at all.

He pushed to his feet, walking over towards his bed and the rucksack he’d dropped upon it. Inside there lay a variety of knives and guns, all silver in one way or another. He pulled out the weapons, laying them out by type and size along his mattress before beginning to check them for any nicks or scratches. He cleaned each weapon one at a time too; oiling, sharpening, and ensuring that each one would perform as predicted in any given situation. His dad’s plan (or lack thereof) sounded far too much like a suicide mission to him and there was no way he was going back into that damned clearing without being armed to the teeth and prepared as much as he could be to deal with a friggen werewolf.

\- - -

The only thing Dean could think about, crouched down as he was in the damp undergrowth surrounding the werewolf’s suspected lair with his legs cramping with cold and fatigue and his stomach threatening to give away his position through its hungry grumbling, was that at least it wasn’t raining. The clouds above them were thick and heavy looking as they passed across the sky, obscuring and revealing in turn the glare of the full moon, but they had thankfully refrained from emptying their load down upon them.

They’d been out in the forest since midday, checking the lay of the land and assuming the best places for each of them to sit in wait of the creature returning. Dean had assumed that once they’d sorted their positioning out, that they’d return to the motel and finalise this ‘ _plan_ ’ of theirs. It was not to be. John had settled down in the clump of bushes he’d claimed as his own soon after and with no other choice but to follow suit, Dean had done the same with his area of the clearing.

He had momentarily considered leaving his father to it, just heading back to the impala and the motel and getting some shut eye or another weapons check or just _anything_ that would keep him occupied enough that he wouldn’t be spending every second of the rest of the day thinking about the creature they were after and how just the thought of coming face-to-face with a real life werewolf was enough to make his stomach roll and bile creep up his throat in uncharacteristic fear.

John didn’t take well to shows of weakness (or desertion) however and despite his feelings towards his father at the moment, he was and knew that he would always be, his father’s soldier. He wasn’t a blind one, however, following John’s word without question or challenge (no matter how much Sammy had liked to tell him otherwise), but he was an obedient one.

And so here they were. It was nearly midnight now and Dean was sure that if nothing happened soon he’d end up dying where he crouched through the exposure alone. He’d long ago lost all feeling his feet, and he was sure that his fingers were not far behind them. He dared not shift to relieve the cramps creeping up his thighs either, knowing that their hiding places were precarious at best and that even the softest pressure of boot to wet leaf could alert a creature with hearing as sharp as any wild animals was.

Dean was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he very nearly missed the first signs of activity since they’d taken their places in the surrounding shrubbery; the shuddering leaves of a bush directly opposite him on the other side of the clearing. He held his breath, fingers becoming sweaty now as he cautiously altered his hold on the gun cradled against his chest, turning and aiming it towards the bushes.

Next there came a flash of black-grey against dark-green as the moon peaked out from beneath a cloud and highlighted the area with a disquieting brightness. Dean blinked against the suddenness of the light, momentarily startled, and lost sight of the creature. He cursed inwardly, eyes flickering left and right and left again, his ears prickled for the softest of sounds as he held his breath and tried to ignore the loudening thumping of his heart as it beat its staccato rhythm against his ribs.

 _There!_

Movement to his immediate right had Dean turning quickly, the leaves around him rustling with the sharp jerk his body made as he twisted in his position; wet leaves from the upper branches dropping spots of rainwater in a steady _drip-drip-drop_ against the leather of his jacket. He brought his gun up as he moved and…

He hesitated.

The sight of a brownish-grey wolf standing before him briefly stilled his finger on the trigger. He had a mere second to realise that the wolf was just that, a wolf and not the werewolf they were after, before it dropped itself into a sudden crouch and snarled a teeth-baring growl towards him. Before Dean could reconsider shooting it however he heard an echoing growl emitted just inches behind him and he felt himself grow instantly cold.

A million and one thoughts flashed across his mind in the split second before instinct and training kicked in and Dean launched himself forward into a shoddy dive and twist that cleared him from the undergrowth, throwing him out into the clearing in a move that knocked the air from his lungs as he landed heavily upon his back.

He thought of how he should have kept his legs from cramping so badly he botched his landing, his body awkwardly twisted and his arms too slow in raising his gun to get off the shot he’d been hoping to aim back into the bushes.

He heard his dad yell out his name, branches rustling, boots stamping across the clearing and thought of how he wished he’d had a chance to tell his dad that he loved him and how he wished he could love him back as much as he seemed to love Sammy.

He raised his shotgun, holding it up like a barrier, just as the werewolf launched itself out into the clearing after him, its weight crushing the breath from Dean as it landed heavily upon his chest.

The creature’s jaws snapped down upon the barrel of the gun, right over Dean’s hand and suddenly the whole world seemed to slow itself down. Seconds turned to minutes and Dean watched in horrified fascination as the werewolf’s teeth sank themselves inch by inch into the soft flesh of his wrist; blood welled up and over, running down his forearm in a warm gush before the crunch of bone breaking sounded and pain spiked its way furiously throughout his arm.

Everything sped up again then and Dean screamed. He screamed through the pain of the bite, at the feel of sharp claws raking at his body, at the fear that this was it for him, this was the end.

He thought then of Sammy. In the moments before the creature dragged him easily up and threw him across the clearing like some kind of ragdoll, before the blackness of unconsciousness claimed him, he thought of his brother. And he thought of how he should have just called Sammy, even if it was just hear his voice, just to tell him he didn’t hate him for leaving.  
 

[](http://mattheal.livejournal.com/9721.html)  
 

 - - -

“Dean!” John’s cry went unheard as he launched his way through the undergrowth towards his son, watching in alarm as the werewolf they’d been hunting launched itself at Dean, snarling and growling, its teeth snapping at the futile barrier Dean’s gun created between them. Dean screamed suddenly and the sound sent a chill of fear as he’d seldom felt before sliding up his spine.

John aimed his gun as quickly as possible, finger squeezing at the trigger just as the werewolf lifted Dean and threw him bodily into the trunk of a nearby tree; his body thumping heavily against both it and then the ground. His shot went wide and John cursed himself. The werewolf turned to him with an angry snarl and John lifted the gun again, taking aim and firing.

The shot took the werewolf in the shoulder but did nothing to deter the creature as it let out an unearthly howl of anger and crouched itself down low, preparing to attack. John aimed again but just as he made to take his next shot, the wolf he’d seen circling them moments before the attack suddenly reappeared, leaping at the werewolf with its own angry roar and a snap of jaws.

A fight broke out between both animals then, sounds of ripping flesh and yelping cries echoing around the clearing as John quickly circled round towards where Dean lay in an unmoving heap. John was torn between the want to continue fighting in the hunt they’d started, to reload and empty the barrel of his gun into the motherfucking creature that dared attack his flesh and blood, but perhaps more than that he wanted to get to his son, he wanted to get them both the hell out of the way whilst the two creatures before them fought it out.

Upon reaching Dean, John found his mind quickly made up. Dean was covered in blood. John’s hand shook as he reached down to press his fingers to his son’s neck, his own heart stuttering at the quick fluttering heartbeat he felt.

“ _Alarte ascendare_!” A voice suddenly roared out from the shadows. John twisted at the sound, gun raised and pointed into the shadows even as he made sure never to turn his gaze completely from the fight. A stream of light shot out of the darkness, rushing towards the fighting animals where, upon striking them, it exploded outwards, throwing both of them bodily into the air. They landed with yelps of pain, the werewolf turning and fleeing into the shadows with the wolf not far behind it.

“Moony!” The voice shouted out again and John watched as a man in a long black cloak ran into the clearing. The man stopped abruptly, his gaze falling onto John and then onto Dean and John saw him hesitate, his gaze flickering in the direction the animals went before cursing and hurrying over towards them.

“Is he alive?” The words were brisk and to the point, the accent familiarly British. John jerked his head in a nod, his hand tightening on his gun.

“Are you hurt?” The man asked then.

John shook his head. “I’m fine.” His free hand snapped out, grabbing at the stranger’s arm as he reached out to touch at Dean’s neck.

“I’m a physician,” the man said. “He needs to be treated as quickly as possible.”

“There’s a hospital not far out from here.” John returned, eyeing the physician sceptically. The man wore what appeared to be, upon further inspection, a long black dress beneath the black cloak John had initially noticed. His hair was long, creeping past shoulder-length, and fell forward into his face, throwing what John could see of it into shadow.

“It’s a half hours drive,” the man countered, “and that’s after you’ve made it to your vehicle. I have a cabin not far from here. I can treat your son more adequately than any hospital.”

“Why should I trust you?” John pressed, distrustful. He watched as the stranger jerked back at the comment, as if physically offended by the question.

“Don’t then.” He pushed back to his feet and stepped away, making as if he were about to head out into the forest once again.

“Wait!” John stood just as swiftly, “I… just… look this is my son, he’s all I’ve got right now and I…” John gritted his teeth together, loosening the grip on his gun enough to slide the safety on and slip it into the back of his jeans. “I’m John Winchester, this is Dean.”

The stranger nodded stiffly. “My name is Severus Snape.”

He dropped back to his knees, reaching for something from inside his cloak. He lifted a vile of clear liquid up, scrutinized it a moment before pulling the stopper and reaching out quick as a snake and pouring its contents into Dean’s mouth, the fingers of his left hand moving from Dean’s jaw to his throat and massaging the muscles into a swallow.

“What the fuck are you doing?” John all but roared, snatching the vial from Severus’ hand. The man turned dark eyes upon him and John tensed, ready for a fight.

“Either you trust me to help your son, Mr Winchester, or you don’t. Do not for one moment think that I care which option you choose.” The words were an angry hiss, but John did not for one moment doubt their sincerity. He nodded his head in a tight gesture.

“Good,” Severus said, “I’ve given him a sedative to keep him unconscious and help ease the pain. Help he lift him.”

John bit at the insides of his mouth and with obvious reluctance placed his trust in the stranger enough to obey his command.

 - - -

There was a cabin towards the edge of the forest on the opposite side from which John and Dean had entered. They’d noticed it during their initial scouting of the area, even spoken with one of its occupants to see whether, living as close to the area of the attacks as he did, he’d noticed anything that could aid them in their investigation. The man they’d spoken to had introduced himself as a Remus Lupin, a man John was quick to notice despite the current circumstances who appeared not to be at home. He recalled being in this selfsame kitchen a few days prior, invited in by Remus himself and served tea and chocolate as the man recalled a few titbits of information he felt might be of use to them.

Severus made quick work of clearing the workbench laid out in the middle of the kitchen before gesturing for John to lay Dean upon it. He quickly turned his thoughts to the moment and placed his son as gently as possible upon the stained wood, and set about removing Dean’s clothing without prompting. He stripped Dean to his boxers and accepted the washcloth Severus handed him.

It took him a while to notice that his hands were shaking. A sick feeling of dread settled itself in the pit of his stomach as he wiped the blood from Dean, a feeling that mixed itself with anxiety and fear at the sight of the gorging scratches the werewolf had left behind and… his hands stilled, fingers curling deathly tight upon the fingers of Dean’s right hand as he saw, clear as day, the imprints left behind on his wrist from a bite, a werewolf bite.

John prided himself on not being an emotional man. Not since Mary’s death had he truly been able to convey himself in any manner that could be seen and understood as an expression of weakness. He’d hardened himself and in doing so had ensured his survival and that of his sons during their many years of hunting.

Now though, now he felt weakness rush through his veins at the sight of Dean’s wrist all bitten and bloodied, his stomach lurching at the knowledge that his son had been bitten and infected by the very creature they’d been hunting. Worst of all, perhaps, was the realisation that it was his fault Dean was in this state. He turned away, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth against a gag. The pungent scent of blood and antiseptic assaulted him instantly as his fingers unconsciously clenched around the washcloth he held.

John pushed away, moving to brace himself against the kitchen sink instead as he felt the meagre contents of his stomach rise up and out of him, splattering against the sides of the sink as he choked out his fear and guilt.

Behind him, he could hear Severus shuffling around the table, muttering a string of whispered words John could not decipher through the ringing in his ears. He shook his head and reached out, pressing at the tap and using the stinging chill of cold water to rinse the blood from his hands and the sick from his mouth. His hands were still shaking. John clenched them around the edge of the sink and took a few deep breaths before turning back.

Wordlessly, Severus pointed him towards a dishtowel with which to dry himself with before turning back to Dean. He had a jar of what appeared to be a purplish ointment out, which he applied liberally to the wounds raking Dean’s body. John blinked as the wounds began to smoke where the ointment came into contact with them and he took an instinctive step forward, preparing to intervene.

“It is a wound cleansing potion,” Severus said without looking up, his voice low but pointed as he focussed on rubbing the ointment into Dean’s wounded flesh. John also noticed that where the ointment was applied, the bleeding stopped. “If he were awake it would merely sting.”

John swallowed heavily and stepped in. He wanted to know how Dean was, wanted to ask just how bad a doctor thought his son was because from a father’s perspective Dean was looking pretty damn bad. He wanted to know if Dean was infected, if Dean’s being bitten meant that he’d become one of those creatures, one of the monsters they’d both spent their lives hunting down. But who could he ask? John knew the lore as well as any hunter did. The bite was how the infection spread. He’d have to wait until the next full moon to be sure, but…

“There is a room down the hall, second door on the right. You’ll find clean linen in the cupboard adjacent. If you’ll make up a bed for him I’ll finish up and we can transfer him there for the night.”

“He’ll be okay?” John asked before he could help himself.

Severus eyed him intently, his eyes were dark and intent and John felt his spine tingle as the stare lasted for longer than was usually deemed polite.

“He is stable.” Severus answered. “I will be administering potions throughout the night to replace the blood and fluid he has lost through the attack.” He paused, keeping his eyes locked with John’s, “I would appreciate if you could refrain from shooting me if you find me entering the room.”

Severus turned away and John twitched, feeling as though he’d just been released from some kind of spell. He blinked his eyes, a sudden fatigue seeming to wash over him. He watched as Severus went back to working on his son, there were a selection of bandages beside the jar of ointment now and John vaguely wondered where they’d come from. He shook his head and, placing a hesitant trust in Severus, left the room to sort out the bed for Dean.

The room Severus had directed him to was obviously a guest room, and though it was clean and tidy, it had an air of disuse which suggested that there hadn’t been all that many guests staying in it. There were two single beds pressed up against opposite walls with a small side table between them upon which sat an ornate pitcher and bowel. He opened the top drawer (two face cloths, one unopened bar of soap) and the cupboard beneath it (empty) before checking beneath the beds (nothing) and then in the large cupboard which took up the wall behind the door (some empty coat hangers, a few of the dresses and a cloak much in likeness to the ones Severus wore and a dressing gown which looked to be well worn in that tatty, comfortably way dressing gowns seemed to get after years of wear).

Satisfied, John made up the beds before returning to the kitchen. He approached with caution, hearing Severus whispering once more. He strained his ears and frowned, thinking that the whispering sounded more like a chanting. He thought he saw a flicker of colour light up the room too and stepped into the room with searching eyes, a hand resting on the butt of the gun sticking out the back of his jeans.

Nothing appeared to be amiss. Severus looked up, raised an eyebrow in his direction and John moved into the room. Dean was all bandaged up. He looked pale and sickly lying limply upon the kitchen table, his chest rising and sinking with shallow puffs of air. He reached out, pressing a hand to Dean’s crown and running his fingers in a quick scrape through the fuzz of Dean’s hair.

“You may put him to bed.” Severus said, drawing his attention back towards the other man. “I will check on him throughout the night, as I said.”

“I will endeavour not to shoot you,” John muttered. Neither of them smiled at John’s words, both of them knowing they were not said in jest.

“I would appreciate that.” Severus remarked dryly.

John slipped his arms beneath Dean’s neck and legs, lifting him up and against his chest.

“Thank you.” He met Severus’ unblinking stare. Severus nodded once and then began to tidy away a collection of empty vials John never saw him use as well as the jar of ointment and some bloodied towels and bandages. John tightened his hold on Dean, his heart lurching as he dropped his gaze down to Dean’s face and thought that he couldn’t bear to lose him. Not Dean. Not his eldest. Not like this.

 - - -

John woke with a start the next morning to find Severus standing beside the bed upon which Dean lay. He appeared to be redressing the lacerations on Dean’s chest and arms. John pushed himself upwards and scrubbed his hands over his face. He felt weary and stiff; he’d slept in his clothes atop the covers, and though his dreams had been a disarray of nightmarish images he appeared to have slept throughout the night. He frowned, knowing himself to usually be a pretty light sleeper, especially in the company of strangers.

“Would you care for some coffee?” Severus’ voice penetrated his thoughts and John looked up as the other man turned towards him.

“Thanks,” he agreed, slipping his boots on and pushing to his feet. He followed Severus from the room and into the kitchen where a haggard looking man sat hunched over the workbench Dean had been laid out on the night before. The man looked up and smiled softly. John found himself recognising the man.

“Mr Lupin,” John greeted, hiding his shock at the man’s haggard appearance. When Dean and himself had met with the man only days prior he’d appeared fit and healthy, if a little rough around the edges. He recalled thinking of the man as handsome with his thick greying brown hair and his bright golden-brown eyes. Now though his hair was in disarray and he had circles etched so deeply beneath his eyes that they appeared sunken and dim. He wondered if the man were sick.

“Please, Remus is just fine.” He took a sip from the mug he held clasped between his hands and grimaced. John watched as Severus placed a quick squeeze to Remus’ shoulder before moving towards a kettle and preparing two cups of coffee.

“How is your son?” Remus asked after another sip of whatever it was he was drinking.

“He’ll be fine,” Severus answered for him. “He’s healing quite nicely. After a few days rest he’ll be alright to move about and I am certain the scarring will fade to a bearable level.”

Severus moved towards the workbench, leaning over to hand John his cup of coffee. John nodded his thanks both for the update and the drink before taking a sip. Severus was watching him intently. John found himself watching him back, feeling that same prickling sensation crawling itself along his spine.

“Something to add?” He dared. John wasn’t entirely sure where the words came from but they felt right and judging from the look Remus shared with Severus there was indeed something to be added.

“There is the small matter of the bite he sustained however,” Severus said, lifting his coffee and sipping at it almost nonchalantly. He watched John intently from over the rim, his dark eyes seeming to glint.

“The bite?” John asked. Though he showed no outward change, he felt as though his insides had just been doused in ice.

“Let us not beat around the bush, as you say, we all know that your son was bitten by a werewolf, Mr Winchester, and though we cannot tell until the next full moon for sure it is more than likely that he has been infected and will become one also.”

“And what, Mr Snape, would you know about werewolves?” John asked as calmly as he could muster. His heart had taken up a staccato rhythm against his chest, a beat he could hear pounding against his ears and dulling out all other sound. It couldn’t be true, he thought to himself, repeating the words like a mantra. Dean would be fine, he told himself. He wasn’t infected, contaminated, _cursed_. He would be okay.

“You’re a hunter,” Severus said as if by way of answer, “that much is obvious. We… have had dealings with what you like to call the _supernatural_ before now. You could even say we’re experts on the subject.”

“But you’re not hunters?” John asked, sceptically.

“Not everything that isn’t human needs to be hunted,” Remus answered, his voice rough but certain.

“Not in my experience.” John bit back.

“Which is why we tend not to associate ourselves with many hunters,” Severus responded, his gaze a glare now across the workbench, as he pressed his hand to Remus’ back as if in consolation.

John bit his tongue. He wasn’t normally one to hold back when he thought something needed saying, but he knew he owed this man, perhaps even both of them, for the aid they had given Dean.

“I need to return to the clearing, pack up what was left.” He said instead, changing the subject.

“We will watch over Dean whilst you are gone,” Remus said, smiling again as he answered the unspoken question in his words. John paused, hesitating only an instant, before nodding towards the pair of them and leaving the cabin.

The morning was cold but dry as John stepped out onto the porch and sucked in a deep lungful of fresh morning air. He stood there for a long moment, simply breathing in and out, as he tried to control the turbulent emotions vying within himself for attention. He needed to think. He needed time to process everything that had just happened. He needed to not think about Dean turning into a monster before his very eyes. With a conscious effort, John pulled himself together and stepped out into the forest.

\- - -

It was late afternoon by the time John arrived back at the cabin. He pulled the car to a slow stop and killed the engine, listening to the _tick-tick-_ ingsound it made as it cooled down. He looked out the front window towards the cabin, his brow a furrow of thought. He couldn’t put this off any longer. Reluctantly, John pulled open his door and stepped out into the chill air. It had rained in the time he’d spent away and his boots squelched in the wet mud of the drive as he made his way towards the front door.

He’d scoured the forest where the attack had taken place, tidying as much of the area as possible of their presence there the night before. He’d returned to their motel room afterwards and spent long hours sitting and staring at nothing, his thoughts turned inwards and focussed on the situation with Dean. He couldn’t stop thinking that the entire state of affairs was his fault, and that he should have trained Dean better or schooled him harder.

Damn. He should never have brought him along on the hunt in the first place! He knew he wouldn’t always be around to make sure Dean’s solo hunts went well but for this one he really felt as though he’d let him down. Too filled with thoughts of Sam and his youngest son’s betrayal to give a damn about his eldest and whether or not he was as prepared as he should have been to take on a werewolf. And now, with the bite and the infection spreading through his system, John knew that it was his fault entirely that his eldest was to become a monster.

John knocked once upon the cabin door before pushing it open and stepping into the entrance. He could hear the murmur of low voices coming from the kitchen and assumed that Remus and Severus were inside. The voices continued uninterrupted as he made his way past the partly-closed door and on towards the room in which Dean lay. It was better that way. He’d rather spend this time alone with his son whilst he could.

He entered Dean’s room with quiet steps, closing the door gently behind him before taking a seat on the bed opposite Dean’s. He placed the duffle he carried on the bed beside him, his hands trembling minutely as he unzipped the bag and drew from within it his gun. He placed the gun on his lap, his fingers holding loosely at the handle.

Dean lay pale and unmoving on the bed, wrapped in bandages from what appeared to be head to toe. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even pattern beneath the thick sheets draped over his prone form. John wanted to reach out and touch him, to assure himself that his son was alright, that Dean was going to be okay, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He opened his mouth to speak, to say something contrite and appropriate for the situation but found that he could think of nothing that would make either of them feel better about what was happening here. What use were apologies in a situation like this? How could he tell Dean that he was sorry this had happened to him, and that he blamed himself for it? How could he tell Dean that he was sorry for what he was about to do, but that he believed it was the _right_ thing to do? How could he tell him that he was terrified of losing him, like he’d lost Sam, and that he loved him just as much as (if not more so than) his brother, that he was sorry for pushing him so hard and not appearing to give him much back in return but stilted affection and demands for more?

John closed his eyes against the unfamiliar prickling of tears before standing with sudden purpose and stepping towards Dean’s bedside. He bent at the waist and pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead before straightening and moving to press the barrel of his gun to his son’s temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes and praying that Dean knew everything he couldn’t ever tell him.

His finger tightened on the trigger then and a bang suddenly rent the air.

Instead of the gun going off however, the bedroom door suddenly burst open, banging against the wardrobe behind it just seconds before he heard a shout and the gun went flying from his hand, jerking John sideways with the motion. He watched as it crashed into the wall, falling to land on the floor between the beds with a _thump_.

“What the-!” John turned towards the doorway, half-crouched and ready for an attack as he reached instinctively for his belt buckle and the knife sitting securely at his side. He heard another shout and suddenly found himself frozen still. His gaze landed upon the doorway and he saw a seething Severus Snape standing just inside the room, his right arm stretched out before him. He looked to be holding a stick in his hand, a stick which was pointed at John and which John vaguely recalled seeing back in the forest during the attack; the stick, a wand, which had emitted a beam of light that had chased after the werewolf.

John tried to speak, tried to yell and curse and demand to know just who the hell Severus was, but found his tongue just as frozen as the rest of him. He struggled internally, mentally trying to overcome the invisible binding he felt holding him in place. He met Severus’ dark eyes and found himself unable to look away; spine tingling as the man stepped closer and closer still.

“The question,” Severus began, his voice a sibilant hiss; menacing almost in its intensity. “Is what the hell _you_ think _you’re_ doing?” His face came within inches of John’s and he sneered down at him.

“Severus?” Remus stepped into the room a moment later and Severus jerked himself back from John. “What’s going on?”

“He just tried to kill his son,” Severus spat, disgust lacing his words. Remus frowned, his brow creasing heavily as he turned his gaze to John.

“John?” he asked. John said nothing. “Severus,” Remus turned, placing a hand on Severus’ arm, encouragingly.

“He’ll only try again,” Severus said, still glaring towards him.

“Severus,” Remus repeated his name and Severus clenched his teeth before waving the wand in his hand. John stumbled forward suddenly, landing heavily on his knees before the two men.

“Who the hell are you?” John demanded, pushing upwards and successfully reaching for and drawing his knife. Severus shot the knife in his hand a look of utter disdain, his fingers twitching against the wand in his own hand.

“We’re trying to help you,” Remus said, hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Bullshit,” John swore, tightening the grip on his knife. “ _What_ are you?”

“ _We_ are wizards,” Severus interrupted. John’s glare only deepened itself at those words. He’d already assumed as much, of course; the attire they chose to wear and the sticks they used to perform their magic aside, John had noticed the subtle artwork of wards placed around the house as well as the multitude of herbs and other ingredients Severus must use in his potions. The way he’d treated his son’s wounds from the get-go had pretty much alerted him from the start.

Remus slanted a look towards Severus, his lips pursed in displeasure before turning his gaze back onto John.

“Mr Winchester, please just hear us out, we’re only trying to help your son-,”

“-no one can help him,” John interrupted gruffly. “You said it yourself, he’s infected. He’d never want to live like a monster.”

Remus suddenly let lose a growl, the very sound of it coming from a grown man caused John to startle and take a step backwards, his legs bumping against the bed behind him.

“It is a manageable condition!” Remus barked out, his voice just as deep and rumbling as the growl he’d only moments ago emitted.

John allowed himself a moment before jumping to the one and only conclusion he could come up with for the current situation.

“You’re the werewolf?” He asked, his voice a deliberate calm that neither Remus nor Severus allowed themselves to be taken in by.

He watched as both men tensed up; Severus’ fingers tightening knuckle-white on his wand whilst Remus seemed to be bracing himself for an attack- though whether for a verbal or physical one John wasn’t sure.

Remus hesitated. “Yes and no,” he answered.

John didn’t care what the hell a ‘ _yes I’m the werewolf but no I’m not_ ’ meant, all he could think was that Remus had just admitted to being a werewolf and that a werewolf had attacked and infected Dean. Without further thought, he dived at Remus with a shout, his knife slashing an arc just inches from Remus’ face before Severus managed to react, cursing him into stillness once more. There was a rushing in his ears, a fury pumping through his veins as he struggled against the invisible binds holding him immobile and keeping him from exacting his revenge on the creature before him.

He saw, more than felt, himself being hovered up off the ground and taken out of the room. He heard the door to Dean’s room shut before he was moved through into the kitchen.

“Right now, Mr Winchester,” Severus began, his voice a deadly calm, “we’re going to talk and you’re going to listen.”

\- - -

His entire body felt as though it were on fire. He wasn’t sure how else to describe the searing spikes of pain that flared throughout his body; each breath was a labour, every twitch and tic of muscle set off spasm after spasm of agony and all Dean wanted to do was bury himself in the mind-numbing darkness of unconsciousness but found instead, to his great fear and discontent that he was slowly but steadily being drawn to wakefulness and the full extent of his body’s hurting.

It started with a _bang-bang_ -ing and then the sounds of raised voices, angry shouts that pitched from high to low to high again, sounds of scuffling, a flare of light that reddened the insides of his eyelids and made him flinch back into himself. The quiet came afterwards, and Dean felt a contentment rise through the aches assaulting him as he tried once again to sink himself back into sleep.

There came a niggling then, a nagging impression that something wasn’t quite right. Dean pulled himself to full consciousness then, instinct and training kicking in, as he forced himself to keep his breathing even and slow before cautiously slanting his eyes open. It took a moment for his eyesight to adjust itself to the dimness of the room. A room, he realised, his eyes opening wider as he failed to spot anyone else within, that he did not recognise.

With his heart pumping erratically in his chest, Dean cautiously pushed himself upwards, hissing softly as he felt already torn flesh pull and rip as he moved. He paused a second to breathe through a fresh burst of pain before pushing aside the sheet that lay draped over him. Dean froze, staring in horror at the bandages covering most of the upper half of his body. He must’ve been in one hell of a fight, he rationalised, brow furrowing against the absent memory of just what exactly had happened to him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, about to push himself up on legs that trembled at the mere suggestion of supporting his weight, when he noticed the gun on the floor. He’d know that gun anywhere and he knew that there was no way, come hell or high water, that John Winchester just left his weaponry lying about haphazardly, and on the floor no less.

His heart picked up the pace again, adrenaline surging through his body as he realised something was not quite right. With slow, cautious, movements, Dean reached out and picked up the gun, his wrist twinged more than a little at the gesture but Dean ignored the little spikes of pain. The gun felt heavy but familiar in his hand and he felt secure just holding it. He checked the barrel- loaded- before urging himself up and off the bed. His legs shook beneath him and he stumbled into the cabinet beside the bed, gripping at the edges as best he could as he fought against the weakness he felt. He closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again it was with renewed determination, his father could be in trouble, his dad needed him, he couldn’t afford to let this- whatever the hell had happened to him- get the better of him.

Dean looked around the room again, this time checking for anything that could give him a clue as to where he was, or even explain why he was here instead of… Dean frowned, unable to visualise exactly where else he thought he should be. He scanned the room, asides from noticing the wooden walls and vaguely remembering something about being on a hunt with his dad, Dean was at a total loss. He found no sign of his clothes either, but did find what looked to be a couple of dresses of some kind hanging in a large wardrobe along with a dressing gown. He grabbed for the latter and struggled his way into the worn, but deceptively soft, fabric.

He leant himself up against the wardrobe a moment, breathing heavily through the pain and wooziness that seemed to wash over him in waves of varying degrees. He vaguely considered that exerting himself may not be the best of ideas in his condition (whatever, exactly, that condition may be) but pushed the thought away, pressing on and making his way with shuffling footsteps towards the door.

By the time he made it out of the room and down the short hallway, stopping outside a partly-closed doorway that showed what looked to be a kitchen with two men and his dad inside, Dean was shivering and sweating with the physical exertion. He raised a shaking hand to his face, pressing the back of it to his brow and squeezing his eyes closed a long moment. Everything hurt, every single part of his body screamed pain and agony and he felt as though another step would see him hurtling to the floor unable to support his own weight much longer.

He rested himself against the wall, breathing quickly but quietly and strained his ears to listen to the murmur of voices coming from within the small kitchen area. He heard his dad’s gruff tones, the brusque questions and comments he threw out with angry deliverance and Dean found himself both tensing and relaxing at the mere sound of his voice. He heard softer replies, a more conciliating tone countered with another’s curt remarks. The actual words took a long while to translate themselves within his mind. He heard comments about _monsters_ and _treatments_ and couldn’t place them into any sort of context for a long while.

It was only with the mention of a _werewolf_ ,- his father spitting the word out with such contempt that Dean wanted to flinch back from the mere sound of it,- that things started to fall back into place for him. Suddenly he could remember the hunt, the forest, the waiting for hours on end, the intermittent rain, the night setting in, body cramping and chilling, boredom, instinct, the wolf, the growling, the attack, _werewolf_ , watching sharp teeth sinking into the flesh of his wrist, the pain and fear and screaming for his dad, the darkness... the all consuming darkness...

“We won’t let you take him,” a voice said, Dean’s eyes sprang open.

“He’s my son! I’ll take him wherever I goddamn want to!” John’s words were an angry growl.

Dean moved, slow and cautious, his own hurts suddenly at the back of his mind as he turned towards the doorway and peered into the kitchen to see the exchange between the three men inside.

“We can help him here,” the man with grey-brown hair beseeched. Dean frowned, vaguely recognising the man. “Becoming a werewolf isn’t a death sentence. He still has the chance to live a relatively normal life.”

“I don’t need _witches_ telling me how to treat my son.” John snapped.

“Yes, because killing him is clearly the best solution,” A man with long, dark hair spat. He held something out towards John and Dean noticed then that his dad wasn’t moving, at all. In fact he seemed to be struggling against something Dean couldn’t see, his face red with anger and frustration, his jaw clenched with whatever exertion he was putting himself through.  
 _Witches. Werewolf_. Dean leant back against the wall beside the door. He’d been bitten, he knew that, but somehow he hadn’t managed to link that with the fact that he’d been infected, that he was now one of the very creatures they hunted. A wash of dizziness swept over him, a nauseous cold feeling that made him want to sink to the floor and never move again. Dean fought against it, breathing in and out and in again, slowly but with determination.

His hand was sweaty on the gun, his wrist twinging with renewed pain now that he recalled the bite. He looked down at the thick wrap of bandage encircling his wrist and imagined again the piercing bite; the flow of blood and the crunch of bone. Dean swallowed heavily, trying to push the vivid rememberings aside as he turned back towards the doorway.

The nausea stayed with him as he moved, pushing the kitchen door the rest of the way open. All conversation immediately ceased as eyes turned to him. He leant himself up against the doorway, too weak to hold himself up alone, and slowly raised the gun in a two handed grip to point in the general direction of the two strangers.

“Let my dad go,” he managed through clenched teeth. The men startled.

“Dean-,” the more kindly looking of the two took a step forward. Dean clicked off the safety, the sound of it loud against the silence. The man stopped, stepped back.

“I’ve heard as much as I want to,” he said, body shivering again, “and I don’t want to hear anymore. Just let my dad go.”

The man who’d moved turned pitying eyes on him and Dean found he could not meet his stare without wanting to break down where he stood. His arms shook with the strain of holding the gun up. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to stay like this before the darkness- already creeping in at the edges of his vision- consumed him completely.

“Severus,” the man said. Dean watched as, with obvious reluctance, the dark-haired man beside his father waved the object in his hand, releasing his father from whatever spell he’d been holding him under.

John didn’t spare a moment in striding over towards Dean. Taking the gun quickly from his hands and aiming it towards the two men in a left-handed grip with expert ease before wrapping his right arm around Dean’s waist and helping to support his weight. Dean sagged against him, fingers clenching at the sleeve of John’s jacket and using the familiar feel and smell of his dad to anchor himself.

“We can help you, Dean,” one of the men called out.

John began walking them backwards out of the kitchen and Dean followed with stumbling steps, ignoring the comment. With the immediate danger out of the way as far as he was concerned, Dean felt the exhaustion and pain come at him with renewed vigour. He stayed on his feet however, determined not appear completely weak and useless as he followed his father’s lead out of the kitchen and eventually out of what looked to be a cabin in the middle of the forest.

He started shivering again, the damp ground and chilling air swirling about his bare feet and legs as they stepped onto the muddied path leading from the cabin to the car. Dean found himself being bundled into the front passenger seat almost without realising that they’d reached the car. His head was spinning horribly now, his vision blurring with dizziness and pain and he curled in on himself, his thoughts troubled with everything he’d just heard. He didn’t know what was going to happen now with him- _to him_ \- he didn’t want to become a werewolf. He didn’t want to become another one of the monsters out there, hurting and killing people, tearing families apart like his was torn apart all those many years ago.

He felt the rumble of the impala stirring to life beneath his slumped body and for a moment was eased into a feeling of comfort and security; he felt safe in this car. He felt as though nothing could touch him whilst inside it, as though talk of witches and werewolves were things that only existed out with it and that if he never stepped foot outside again he’d never have to deal with it.

The car shuddered beneath him as it pulled away from the cabin,

\- - -

They didn’t go far. John pulled the car over once they were under the cover of the trees, out of sight of the cabin and the two men there. Dean stirred back to full wakefulness then, sitting himself up as much as he could and looking to his dad who sat, silent and brooding and staring out the front window. His hand was hesitant in its touch as he reached out to tug at the sleeve of his dad’s jacket.

“Is it true?” He asked, breaking the silence and turning wide eyes upon his father, uncaring of the fact that he wasn’t hiding his emotions, his terror, as well as he’d always been taught.

John’s fingers whitened as he increased his grip on the steering wheel.

“Dad?” Dean pressed, his voice soft but hesitant; brave in the asking but cowardly in wanting to know the answer. He wanted his dad to lie to him. To sling his arm around him and tell him it was all nonsense, that of course it wasn’t true, he was going to be fine and what the hell was all this worrying about? But he didn’t, and Dean watched as John closed his eyes a brief moment, swallowing heavily as he tried to form the words Dean didn’t want to hear.

“I don’t know, Dean,” John answered after a stretched minute of silence. “I…” he looked over at Dean then and Dean almost cried as his father reached out for him, wrapping a tight arm about his shoulders and drawing him up against him in a one-armed hug. Dean clung to his dad then, pressing his face against the gun-powder and oil smell of his jacket and sucking in a deep breath, trying to control himself. His entire body ached, his entire _being_ inside and out hurt and he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep all these troubles away.

“What’s going to happen to me, dad?” he asked softly.

“We’re gonna figure this out, Dean,” John countered, squeezing at his shoulders. He felt his dad shift, felt the kiss he pressed to the top of his head and felt the tears fall from his own eyes then.

“And if we can’t?” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper. John’s response was nonexistent.

He thought of how one of the two men in the cabin had spoken about John trying to kill him and wondered if it were the best, perhaps the only, solution after all. Dean pulled away from his dad, brushing the back of his hand in a quick and angry swipe across his eyes before reaching for the gun sitting upon his dad’s lap. He held it for a long, contemplative minute before he clicked the safety off and looked up to his father. John was watching him intently, unmoving, barely even breathing, his eyes following every movement of the gun as Dean turned it in his hand and offered it, handle first, to his dad.

“Please, dad?” Dean bit at his lip, his words a plea as he held the gun out towards his father in hands that trembled, urging John to take it from him. To use it on him. “I don’t want to be a monster.” He whispered.

“You’re not a monster,” John instantly returned, his look fiercely intent.

“But I will be,” Dean pressed, accepting the truth of his own words.

“No, you won’t.” John denied, vehemently.

“Dad-,” Dean tried, but his words were swiftly cut off as John took the gun from his hands in another practiced manoeuvre. He held it aimed towards Dean and Dean felt his heart lurch and his mouth dry almost instantly with fear and trepidation. He squeezed his eyes closed, unable to watch (not wanting the last thing he ever saw to be his father about to shoot him through the head).

There came a click and a shifting of fabric before the unmistakeable sound of the glove box being opened and closed sounded. Dean peeked his eyes open. John’s hands were back on the steering wheel, his gaze focussed on a point in the near distance. Dean felt his eyes well up in a mix of _frustration-gratitude-disappointment_ and he shifted himself in his seat, turning his head as if to stare out of the side window.

John started the engine soon after. Nothing more was said on the subject, not upon their return to their motel to pick up their things. Not during the seemingly endless drive from North to South Dakota. Not even when they reached Uncle Bobby’s place and holed up there for the remainder of that calendar mouth. Nothing more was said on the subject, unless that is, Dean wasn’t around to hear it. Or rather, unless Dean appeared to not be around to hear it.

He’d been put on bed rest for the weeks following on from the attack but boredom and restlessness and a sick-nervousness of what was to come drew him from the room Bobby had made up for him and sent him in search of his father and uncle. He’d spend hours sitting in the shadows, listening to pages turning and candles flickering and the occasional shared piece of information pertaining to werewolves and the lore surrounding them.

He wanted to be angry at his father for keeping him from helping, but at the same time he was insanely grateful not to have to pour over page after page of unnecessarily graphic depictions of werewolf transformations, of the mutilation they caused, of the pain and suffering they were said to both endure and produce. He didn’t want to know how every bone in his body would bend and break and shift and reform in order to turn him into a wild and slavering beast. He didn’t want to know how he’d go insane at the merest whiff of a human scent and hunt that same scent down until it was ripped and torn and consumed in shreds of bloody meat.

He really didn’t want to know anything about werewolves at all.

He certainly didn’t want to be one.

The closer they got to the end of the month though… Dean could feel strange things happening to his body. Inexplicable urges for rare meats and changes in the way he saw, heard and smelled things. His bones ached and pulled and he felt as though he were in a constant state of alertness, waiting… just waiting for the inevitable to happen.

He asked his dad only once more since leaving Fort Ransom to help stop him from becoming a monster; his gun held out like some kind of offering, his please as earnest as they were desperate, but John had refused him again.

His dad stopped him from sleeping with a gun beneath his pillow after that.

In fact, his dad had stopped him from keeping any weapons at all.

[](http://mattheal.livejournal.com/9721.html)

  
\- - -

There was only pain. Pain and fear and an all consuming hunger raging within him. There was no thought. No ability to think, to theorise, to understand. No recollection of events, only flashes of disjoined memories; metal walls, screams that turned to howls, splintering wood, the taste of blood, screaming voices, claws scratching, teeth biting, the sound of flesh tearing, bones breaking, searing pain, a hunger left unsatisfied.  
The only thing Dean remembered about the transformation was the itch beneath his skin. The rush of prickling heat that assaulted him as he stood in the middle of his uncle Bobby’s panic room. His dad’s worried eyes watching him from behind the safety of the metal door keeping him prisoner within.

He remembered the itch, and the shakes, and the sweats, and the disconcerting sensation of his flesh crawling and his bones stretching.

He remembered the pain. Oh god the pain. He remembered dropping to his knees with a scream, a scream that never ended, a scream that rang in his ears right through the blackness of unconsciousness until he woke, the next morning, to find himself bundled in bandages. He woke up screaming.

He did not remember the transformation itself. He did not remember the wolf taking him over and ripping through the furniture in the panic room. He did not remember tearing into his own flesh when the wood proved unsatisfactory and the scent of humans because too unbearable to ignore.

He did not remember his dad screaming for him, or Bobby screaming at John and holding him back. He did not remember collapsing, spent and wounded in a bloody mess, his body convulsing as the transformation reversed itself.

He did not remember much about his first transformation, he only knew that he wished it were his last.

He lay in bed for three days afterwards, his body aching and burning in ways he never knew were possible. He was covered in self-inflicted bite marks and bruises and gorging scratches, and no matter which way he tossed or turned, there was always a fresh hurt to take into account. In those first few days after the transformation Dean wished he’d never survived the initial attack. Even being doped up on painkillers couldn’t entirely save him from the pain and delirium.

It took three days for his dad to make up his mind and bundle him into the impala. Three days of his drug-induced ramblings and half-choked screams of anguish before his dad packed them up and drove him straight back to North Dakota. John told him about Messrs Lupin and Snape who lived up in the cabin in the Sheyenne State Forest, about what they were and how they knew things, how they had medications that could help Dean, about how Remus was a werewolf and how they’d offered once to help him and how maybe they’d still be inclined to help him now.

Dean just wished everything would stop hurting.

\- - -

Before they’d even pulled to a stop outside the cabin, the front door was opened and the two men Dean now recognised as being Severus Snape and Remus Lupin stepped out and onto the porch. It was almost as if they’d been expecting them. Dean shivered beneath the blankets piled around him and closed his eyes. He felt his dad touch hesitantly at the top of his head and tried not to flinch away from the contact; everything hurt; from his skin to his bones and even to his _hair_. Everything was a constant ache he couldn’t seem to rid, not even with the painkillers his dad had been giving him every couple of hours.

John lifted his hand just as quickly as he’d lowered it and Dean could almost see the grimace on his dad’s face at the sight of him, all bruised and cut up and looking so close to death’s door it was amazing he could still summon the energy to breathe. He felt the car shift on its axel as his dad pushed open his door and stepped out of the car. He could feel the coolness of the breeze that floated in from outside and he grit his teeth against it. He heard the crunching of his dad’s boots against dry leaves as they walked around the front of the car, stopping only when they reached his side and gently opening his door.

There was an apology somewhere in the silence as his dad reached in and eased him out of the car and into his arms. He paused then, and Dean could imagine him looking up towards the cabin, staring at the two men waiting on the porch for them. Dean kept his eyes closed, scrunched tight against the jarring ache as his dad began to walk them the rest of the way up the drive. Nothing was said as they climbed the steps, at least nothing that was said with words, there only seemed to be an air of acceptance as they made their way into the cabin.

Dean felt himself being lowered onto a bed soon after and then a hush of words spoken in quick succession before footsteps left the room. Someone, his dad he assumed, sat beside his bed and touched at his forehead. He flinched back then, choking on a whimper as he pulled at already torn muscles.

“I need you to drink this for me, Dean,” said a voice beside him. Dean blinked his eyes open in surprise at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and saw the man he knew to be named Remus Lupin sitting at his bedside.

“You’re… you’re the werewolf?” Dean asked, his voice raw and hesitant. The man looked… better than Dean had thought he would have looked, especially considering the full moon had only been a few days ago.

Remus smiled grimly and nodded his head. “Not the one that infected you, but I am a werewolf, yes.”

“How?” Dean frowned, feeling tears leaking from his eyes through the pain. Remus reached out with deliberate care and brushed them away with the tips of his fingers.

“How have I lived so long going through this every month?” Remus asked, smiling gently. Dean nodded fractionally.

“It’s not an easy life, Dean,” Remus started, “and for the longest time all I ever wanted was an out. But there are ways of managing the condition now; you won’t ever have to turn into that kind of werewolf again. You won’t have to be alone either.”

“Will it still hurt?” he asked, knowing that whilst he could keep himself locked up and away from people he could harm, there wasn’t any way he knew of to stop the all consuming pain that the transformation and his time as a werewolf had brought to him. Even now, days afterwards, he still ached with the wounds he’d inflicted upon himself during the transformation.

“Yes,” Remus said, not smiling anymore. “I won’t lie to you, Dean, it will always hurt, but I can promise that the pain won’t feel like this. It’ll never feel as bad as it did this first time. And it certainly won’t last this long either. We have a potion,” he explained, “that will let you keep your mind once you have transformed, and in turn this will allow you to keep in control of your own mind and stop you from hurting yourself.”

He reached out, urging Dean into an upright position before holding a vial of pungent smelling liquid to his lips. Dean pursed his lips, eyes looking to Remus for further reassurance despite himself.

“This will help to ease your pain.” He said, seeming to understand.

Dean opened his mouth and drank the liquid back with a few quick gulps. He wanted to gag on the taste but managed to swallow back the urge as he felt the liquid sliding its way thickly down his oesophagus before settling heavily inside his stomach. Remus lowered him back to the bed and tidied the blankets around him.

“Try to get some rest,” Remus urged.

Dean felt a heat begin to spread itself throughout his body, soothing his muscles and dragging him down into a haze of dreamy warmth. He opened his mouth, making as if to speak but Remus shushed him, repeating that Dean should try to get some sleep. When Dean closed his eyes, that’s exactly what he did.

\- - -

When Dean woke next, it was with a feeling of bone-deep weariness but without the aches and pains he’d been expecting. He shifted cautiously against the bed and sighed in relief as instead of the flinching sting of tearing flesh he’d expected, he felt only the scratching of the sheets.

“Hey,” came a voice from beside his bed. Dean smiled, content, as he turned onto his side and saw his dad sitting and watching over him.

“Hey,” he replied, the word a cough against the dryness of his throat. His dad leant forward and helped ease him into an upright position before holding a glass of water to his lips. Without argument, Dean drank, his eyes closing against the sweet taste as it soothed his throat.

“Thanks,” he muttered as his dad took the glass away and helped lay him back down.

“How’re you doing?” John asked him, watching him intently.

“Okay.” He carefully stretched out his body. “Just tired now I think.”

“You should get some more rest.” John said.

Dean nodded but didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t really want to go back to sleep, not just yet anyway. He wanted to know what was going on, what was going to happen, now that he could think clearly. His dad was still watching him.

“How long have I been out?” He asked, wincing a little as he cleared his throat to ask.

“Only a couple of hours,” John said. Dean nodded. He wondered what Remus had given him that could work so fast. The silence stretched on. John shifted in his chair. Dean fingered the edge of the sheet covering him and thought that maybe he should just close his eyes and pretend to sleep. He continued to fidget with his sheets instead.

“Dean-,” John started then stopped. Dean looked up. There must’ve been something, some look on his face or in his eyes, because his dad reached out suddenly and took his hands, squeezing them tightly in his own. Dean felt a flush of heat rush through him and was embarrassed to realise his eyes were tearing up.

“I’m sorry,” John said. Dean looked away, trying to blink his eyes dry. His heart was pounding in his chest. “I just… I want you to know how sorry I am Dean.”

“S’not your fault,” Dean muttered.

“It is my fault,” his dad squeezed his hands again. “I’m your father and I should have protected you better. I should have…” John sighed, “We should have been talking. I should have answered your questions…”

“Dad,” Dean tugged one of his hands free, wiping quickly at his eyes as his tears began to fall. John let his other hand go and Dean brought both up to his face. He felt the side of his bed dip and then felt arms wrapping around him. Dean buried his face into his father’s chest, breathing in his scent whilst trying to pull himself back together.

“I love you, Dean,” John whispered against his ear, “I don’t ever tell you, or even show you, but I do. And I’ll do anything I can to help you through this, I hope you know that.”

Dean nodded, his heart swelling at the words. “What’s going to happen now?”

“Now?” John pulled away and Dean scrubbed his hands over his eyes a final time. “We’re going to stay here for a while, at least until… until the end of the month.”

Dean felt nauseous at the very thought of there being an end of the month. He shuddered, sinking back against his pillows and turning his head away.

“They tell me they have a type of medicine Remus takes to stop him transforming completely. Wolfsbane or something I think they said it was called. Do you remember the wolf we saw in the woods? Right before…” John trailed off.

Dean nodded, biting at the insides of his cheeks. Where once the memory of what had happened to him had been vague at best, he could now seem to recall it all in startling clarity, particularly the moment he’d been bitten, and infected.

“Remus told me that the wolf was him, instead of a werewolf he just turns into a normal wolf but he keeps his human mind. He says he’s in control of himself in that form.”

“He says it’ll still hurt to transform,” Dean whispered, speaking his fears out loud. “I mean… I don’t ever want to hurt anyone but… I don’t…” he clenched his jaw shut against the choke of words. His dad reached out and squeezed at his shoulder.

“I know, son,” John said, understanding. Dean didn’t know what to do with this side to his father; the caring, the displaying of emotion, the physical reassurances. It just all seemed so unreal, so _unlike_ his dad that it kept throwing him off guard, kept making him want to just curl up in a ball and have his dad hug him and tell him everything was going to be alright when usually he’d be trying to man it up, brush it off, and convince everyone around him (including himself) that everything was alright, that he would be absolutely fine.

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurted out, scrubbing at his eyes again. John actually smiled at him; it was just a quick twisting of the lips, but a smile nevertheless.

“I think you get a free pass with this one, Dean.” John reached out, ruffling at his hair like he used to do when Dean was still a kid.

“I was told to give you some more of this potion stuff when you woke up,” John said, pulling his hand back and reaching for a small bottle sitting upon the bedside cabinet. “It’ll make you drowsy, but they assure me it’s healing you inside and out.”

“Why do you trust them so much?” Dean asked, frowning a little.

John paused, considering his words carefully before he spoke them. “Because they’re the only people I know who can help you.”

It wasn’t the best of reasons to base ones trust on but it was something at least, he supposed. He reached for the bottle and took a quick sip, cringing at the taste of it and the feel of it slipping down his throat.

“I’m going to get the monster that did this to you, Dean, I promise you that.” John’s voice was low and intense as Dean passed the bottle back to him.

Dean stilled at the words. There was something in the way John said them that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Dad-,” Dean hesitated. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his dad not to, to tell him that he didn’t want to see him getting hurt, but he said nothing, knowing how ridiculous such comments would be especially considering the job they did on an almost daily basis. It wasn’t as if either of them had never been hurt before now. Sure they’d landed in the hospital a handful of times apiece, but never like this, never this seriously (or permanently).

“Remus has agreed to stay with you this evening,” John said, eyeing him carefully.

Dean frowned at his dad once more. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I never said you did.” John almost smiled at him. “But I’d like for someone to watch out for you while I’m away and Remus volunteered.”

“Why, where will you be?” Dean asked, his heart beginning to hammer out a beat against his chest.

John slanted a look at him. “Hunting.”

“Dad…” Dean pressed his lips together. He knew it was the werewolf John would be hunting. His dad seemed hell bent on extracting some kind of revenge on the creature for what it had done to him.

“I should be there,” Dean finished.

“It’s not your hunt anymore, Dean.” John said, shaking his head and pushing to his feet as if that put an end to the matter.

“You can’t just leave me out of this,” Dean protested, pushing himself up a little more. “I’m the one who got attacked here, don’t I get a say?”

“I can and I will leave you out of this.” The words were spoken like a rebuke and Dean bristled to hear that tone in his dad’s voice again. John sighed then, huffing the breath through his nose.

“You’re in no fit state to be hunting, Dean,” John placated. “Severus has information regarding the creature’s whereabouts, but we have to do this now before we lose the trail for yet another month.”

Dean pursed his lips. It wasn’t as if he particularly wanted to meet the creature that had done this to him again. Not even if he was currently untransformed. It made him nauseous just thinking about the werewolf, about that night, about his own transformation which had been brought on by the werewolf’s bite. Dean clenched his fingers into the sheets. He didn’t want this happening to someone else either, nor did he want to hear about further incidents, about families losing loved ones as a result of these savage attacks.

He tried to imagine the werewolf with a face, a human body, a _conscience_ , and failed. He thought of Remus then and his heart stuttered in his chest. He had a face, a human body, and a conscience. He was a man- _werewolf_ \- who had morals and compassion and managed his condition to the best of his abilities. If Dean hadn’t had his dad, Bobby, even Remus and Severus who were helping him now, if he didn’t know about werewolves and the transformation… what would there have been to stop him becoming the same as the monster out there attacking people when he turned into a werewolf? The thought made him uncomfortable.

“What will you when you find him?” Dean asked, fingers twitching against the linen.

The look John gave him spoke volumes and Dean… well, he said nothing. The werewolf, knowingly or not, had still killed people. There had to be some kind of comeback for that, hadn’t there?

“Try not to think about it, Dean.” John reached out to squeeze at Dean’s shoulder a moment before moving towards the door.

“Dad-,” Dean called, feeling a spike of panic shoot through him as his dad reached the door. John turned to look at him.

“I…” He hesitated, throat drying up against his words. John raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Can I borrow your phone?” he finished, somewhat lamely, looking away. John paused a moment before fishing his cell phone from his jacket pocket and passing it over.

“I’ll see you later tonight, okay?” he hovering a second longer before moving back to the door and twisting the handle to open it.

“Dad-,” Dean called again, fidgeting with the phone. His heart was thundering in his chest again. All he could think about was how his dad was going off on a hunt and how he hadn’t yet had a chance to tell him what he wished he’d had the chance to tell him before the attack, how he’d just never said…

“Yes, Dean?” John answered patiently, prompting him.

“Thank you.” Dean blurted, “For looking out for me and… and I love you too, you know that right?” He ducked his head a little but kept his eyes on his dad’s.

“I know, son.” John said, smiling softly at him before finally leaving the room. As the door closed, Dean sagged back against his pillows. He stared up at the ceiling, already wondering how his dad’s hunt would go, how John would manage to work with Severus, what exactly they would do when they caught the werewolf, whether they’d give the guy a chance to explain or just…

Dean shook his head. Maybe he’d regret it later, but right now he really just didn’t want to know.

He looked down at the phone in his hands instead, trying to take his mind off the whole thing.

Life was too short for regrets after all.

Dean took a deep breath, and turned his thoughts from the impending hunt. He flipped his dad’s cell open and keyed in a number he knew he could probably rhyme off in his sleep.

The line on the other end rang once. Twice. Three times.

“Hello?” The word was a cautiously spoken question and Dean found himself grinning just a little.

“Hey, Sammy.”

 **End.**


End file.
